I have seen all the colors In the last dying light
I've adapted to a comfort found only in night
The darkness abundant, unleashing a spell
The ringing in my ears far too difficult to quell
Surrounded by only the sounds of my steps
The way this cave echoes sounds like it has wept
For thousands of years and hidden out of sight
A pathway to sacrosanct Satanic might
Lucifer awaits in a chair on his porch
The apotheosis of those living by torch
"The mud may be cool but the soil reaches deeper
Harvest your grain" so speaks the Reaper
"The pain within patience brings forth your frustration, this stillness is far different than stagnation!"
Claw at the dirt, the rock and the grime
Lull yourself with an indicative rhyme
A tale of woe, of a tyrant called reason
The soliloquy of solitary decadadence and treason
And so while Satan laughs and offers up some tea
You think "that terrible smile has nothing to do with me"
And when the mirror never lies and your innards begin to scorch
You then realize what it truly means to be living by torch
There is nothing more clear yet hurtful and strange
Everyone around you suddenly seems far stui dmore deranged
Their eyes they squabble at your desperate attempts
To collect all the pieces of you that you have left